


A Four Letter Symphony

by Xmarksthespot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, Episode: s10e11 There's No Place Like Home, Gen, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xmarksthespot/pseuds/Xmarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean eats salads. He eats more leaves than he's seen grown on trees and the drinks he washes it all down with don't burn the back of his throat unless it's Sam's scalding hot tea.</p><p>Dean is not okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Four Letter Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Charlie leaves.

“Dean?” The voice is deep and something like hitting the pavement, but feels like a breath of fresh air all in one.

“Hey, Cas. You busy?”

“No, Dean,” Cas responds and it doesn’t sound like he had been asleep, so Dean breathes a little easier knowing he didn’t disrupt the guy’s rest; God knows he needs it. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. He has never been good at small talk, but finally rests his back against the headboard as if he’s readying himself for a long night. He won’t say it, but he had been circling his room for the past hour while Sam is out there thinking Dean’s actually resting a full eight hours. Truthfully, Dean’s probably sleeping less than he says he is. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“That’s good.”

Dean nods even if Cas isn’t there to see it. He presses his palm against his mouth hard, stretching out jaw muscles before he musters up the courage to say, “Yeah. So uh, the reason I called…”

“Yes, Dean?”

The hunter purses his lips, and his eyelids level with his surroundings. He sees his mother’s and brother’s photos laid out on the opposite side of the room—the swords spread out across the walls above them. There’s a dull ache that he feels running through his veins and it’s enough to convince him to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Do you think you could distract me?” Dean’s voice cracks, and it takes all the strength he has left in his body to not hang up in shame.

There’s a distinct pause before Cas replies. “I’m sorry?”

Surprisingly, it pulls out a broken chuckle. Dean could almost imagine the head tilt from wherever the hell Cas is right now. Bright, blue eyes piercing in his direction, backwards tie and the familiar trench coat. It’s not what Cas looks like anymore, not with the rumpled, borrowed coat and muddy, tired eyes with bags upon bags underneath, but it’s the face Dean pictures when he thinks…

“Distract me,” Dean says as calmly as he can muster. “I haven’t had alcohol in my system all week. My hands...my hands are practically shaking.” He laughs spitefully. He says it like a joke; he wonders if Cas will believe him.

“Ah. Sam told me about your recent diet change. I’m glad. There are far too few angels who would be willing to repair your liver now.”

He snorts. “You two gotta stop gossiping behind my back like little school girls. S’not nice, you know.”

He can almost feel Cas’s smile. It’s gentle, like it’s always been. It fights off the song his blood sings. Dean doesn’t realize he had been clenching his fists the entire time until he felt the release of muscle tension spread through his fingertips.

“Dean, I am not sure how you would like me to proceed this. Are you sure Sam wouldn’t—”

“No...Sam’s got a lot on his plate right now. I don’t want to...he doesn’t need to know. I mean, it’s just a lot more water and herbal shit and more leaves than I remember seeing grown on trees. I'm not used to it. I'm not used to..." He sighs. "Tell me about your day.”

“My day?”

“Yeah, man. Nothing about your progress with, you know, but,” Dean stops to think about the various other hobbies hunters have and it causes his brows to furrow, “what’d you do today?”

So Cas talks. He talks about the Biggerson’s he went to for lunch and trying pecan pie.

“Oh man, what I wouldn’t do for some pie right now,” Dean responds.

“We should go,” Cas says after a brief pause. “After this. If you would like.”

It’s Dean’s first genuine smile in a long time, and his face feels stiff from using facial muscles he wasn’t used to using. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Cas talks about looking out the windows from the local library he visited, watching the cars and school buses pass by. He tells Dean that children lie in the snow and move their arms and legs and seem to obtain great enjoyment from doing such things; Dean tells him that they’re snow angels, and Cas, for all the negativity he could have said, asks Dean:

“Could we do that too?”

“Hell yeah. We’ll make a giant snowman too—one bigger than Sam.”

“That sounds rather difficult if neither of us can reach it,” Cas jokes. “Would you like to tell me about your day, Dean?”

The question has Dean still. “My day?”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas must have sensed Dean’s discomfort, or maybe he talked to Sam before all this, because he continues with, “what did you like most about today?”

Dean stutters, but for the sake of not wanting to talk about the awful, miserable hours, he sifts through his memories. “I-It’s not actually my favourite part of the day, but uh…I tried kale today.”

“Did you like it?”

He shakes his head into the phone. “No way. God, it was awful. I don’t know how Sam eats this stuff every day.”

“Hm, I have yet to try it, but I’ve learned from Sam that I can’t trust your judgement on food all the time. I will have to try it one day before I can judge.”

“Alright, but don’t blame me when you start choking on Mother Nature,” Dean says, and for some reason he can’t help but appreciate the fact that he tried that disgusting leafy thing. He spends the next while talking more than he has to anyone this week, listing every food item he’s tried and what he’s going to try. He doesn't mention Charlie, or any of their recent cases. If anything, it doesn't occur to him to mention those things.

Before Dean knows it, it’s two hours later and his eyes are feeling drowsy. He asks Cas to continue though, to keep talking. About his yesterday. About tomorrow. The more the former angel talks, the less Dean hears the throbbing pulse in his arms. He falls asleep to Cas’s voice and for the first time in a while, he has no nightmares.

Instead, he dreams of lying in the snow, the faint roar of laughter coming from Sam in the distance. The snow is light and fluffy, but it doesn’t soak through his clothes. And when he feels the ends of his fingertips make contact with something, he turns to his side. Dean sees the bright, blue eyes staring at him. Cas has his arms outstretched on either side, face unmarred by stress and the only marks there are laugh lines, He has a gummy grin and he’s wearing the familiar trench coat and backwards tie.

“Are you okay, Dean?” He asks.

Dean only nods. Snow falls through the collar of his shirt but he doesn’t feel cold. What he does feel is safe. Dean feels safe.

“Would you like to make snow angels with me?”

Dean nods again, beginning to move his arms and legs, hearing the swishing of snow being pushed away and pulled back, from him—from Cas. He looks forward at the sky, Sam’s laugh reverberating in the back, Cas’s voice echoing in his thoughts.

He’s okay now.

He will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> My best friend and I actually go through the same routines whenever we talk to each other on the phone during my panic attacks. Unfortunately, talking isn't really a Winchester forte, so...
> 
> Also, let it be known that I tried kale for the first time three days ago and it's not as bad as Dean makes it out to be.


End file.
